


Bleeds

by boys_in (kaleidosphere)



Series: Yurileth Week 2020 [5]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, F/M, Feelings, Female My Unit | Byleth, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Fluff, Injury, Post-Timeskip | War Phase (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:21:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaleidosphere/pseuds/boys_in
Summary: White magic runs in the Ashen Wolves like blood.Byleth's, on the other hand, is distinctivelyred.
Relationships: Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc & My Unit | Byleth, Yuris Leclair | Yuri Leclerc/My Unit | Byleth
Series: Yurileth Week 2020 [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746655
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	Bleeds

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for [Yurileth Week 2020,](https://twitter.com/yurilethweek/status/1239984187370766336) and the prompt I used was  injury . Usually, I edit my drafts at least once, but this is deliciously unbeta'd, and I decided to keep it that way since I wrote it in a bit of an inspired frenzy. With that being said, thanks for the support you guys give me, and enjoy!

Yuri never gets injured. He gets clipped, of course, by swords, lances, axes, and arrows. On rare occasions, he gets slammed by gauntlets, enough that the silver knuckles drain the life from his skin, leaving behind withered kisses of purple and yellow. But none of these sensations last longer than a few moments, because he is quick to heal himself, remembering the incantations that he knows by heart.

Byleth, on the other hand, is a free game. Byleth, Dimitri, Dedue, Ashe, Felix, Sylvain, Ingrid—most of the Blue Lions are susceptible to sustained injuries. Annette and Mercedes are better at healing, and Yuri never worries about the Ashen Wolves, who are cutthroat enough to hold their own, but tactical enough to ensure their safety. White magic runs in the Ashen Wolves like blood.

Byleth's, on the other hand, is distinctively _red._ It paints the sleek stones of Fort Arianrhod in rosy colors, a mural of struggle and blades. The pattern isn't familiar—the trickster's been in enough scrapples to know the sight of sword-blood (slanted spatter, angular and clean), lance-blood (puddle-like, dripping and concentrated), axe-blood (messy, horrific, like a person bled out everywhere), arrow-blood (never leaves the neck, the eyes, the heart), or even gauntlet-blood (collected in the divots of metallic knuckles).

Yuri knows this bloodbath is caused by magic, and he can see Cornelia's minced corpse lying sideways, a result of Byleth fighting back before she collapsed from her wounds.

Her body, prone, magic-burned, barely breathing by the time Yuri gets to her. He doesn't panic, even though every fiber of his being is screaming, cursing, wondering what was the point of fighting if he let her get hurt like this. He simply controls his emotions, hands still as he tends to her most obvious wounds.

Her body feels like a dead one in his hands, and he constantly has to check for a pulse, for breathing, for signs of _life_ in Byleth. She who is so enlightened, gold filigree and white silks desecrated by bloody remains of herself, of her enemies. He cradles her head close to his chest, hands trailing over wounds and lacerations. The magical residue is harder to banish—he'll need more time to work on that.

"Yuribird," Hapi says from behind him. "We have to go. Do you need help to carry her?"

"I can carry her," he reassures. "Let me know the damage spec later."

"Okay. Don't push yourself too hard."

He nods for Hapi's sake and Hapi's sake alone, simply because he is willing to go the distance for Byleth. There is no question of limitations—only time constraints against what would be his most valiant efforts. As he carries her out of the battlefield, all he can think about is blood, and the lengths he'd go to make sure she never bleeds like that again.

/

/

Byleth doesn't expect Cornelia to hit her the way she does. The magic itself isn't a problem—extensive training and natural ability has given the Enlightened One a good resilience against mystic arts—but the angle and velocity of the spell, which hits her side straight on like a rushing bull. She goes flying, blood spraying from wounded skin, a trail of gore evidencing their struggle.

She won't go down so easily, though. She has underestimated Cornelia, admittedly, but she hasn't given up on herself. Staggering, Byleth has one hand wrapped around her grizzly wound, the other hand clutching onto the Sword of the Creator. She remembers her students, her father, her friends who are all counting on her.

For some reason, she remembers Yuri, in particular, and the thought of never seeing him again is enough to enrage her.

She cuts Cornelia to many, many, many bloody pieces, ignoring the parts of her own body that fall out all the while.

She falls to the ground dazed, imagining the sight of white and blue and purple and _peace_ before succumbing to the darkness.

/

/

The infirmary is quiet. Following the struggle at Arianrhod, people have been in and out all day. One bed has been reserved, however, for Byleth Eisner, who is an integral part of the resistance, but who is also more gravely injured than ten of their soldiers combined. She rests in the threadbare sheets, unconscious as Yuri tends to her wounds with utmost focus.

By the time she wakes up, the world is dark, and only a handful of candles keep the room lit. She groans, tries to turn on her side, remembers her injury, and recoils hastily.

What an idiot.

"Be careful," Yuri whispers. "It's still sore."

"No kidding," Byleth murmurs. "Thank you."

Yuri nods, and reaches his hand out to hers. Whether or not he loves her—truly, genuinely, and honestly loves her—doesn't matter. The war takes priority, but in rare moments of solitude like these, all he can do is stare at her, and remember every single thing he adores about her.

From her messy hair (truthfully, he liked it more when it was blue, but there was something ethereal about the mint green), to her long-lashed eyes (everything about her is so _green,_ now—so alive), to her lean, muscled limbs and pronounced curves.

As she laid before him, Yuri sees everything he loves about her, and everything he doesn't. He hates the way her face looks like when she's in pain. He dislikes the color _red_ on her, and how it stains everything darker, grislier, uglier. He hates it when she lies down so helplessly, like she is a damsel and not the pseudo-warrior-queen he knows her to be.

He hates the ashen look on her countenance, bringing to life everything about the demonic rumors she used to hoist around. He sighs deeply, and presses her fingers against his lips: chapped, callused, torn, bloodied. He closes his eyes against her touch, breathing deeply.

She sits up straighter, avoiding turning on her side, and gazes at him near-lovingly. "Yuri—"

"We can't," he whispers. "But I don't want to see you like this again."

"It's not like it was your fault," she points out. "You were in charge of the left battalion, weren't you? And the others—"

"Bullshit. I don't care if I was in the Empire—I should've been by your side to begin with. Then this would never have happened."

Her expression goes stony, but she doesn't pull away from him. "You don't know that."

"And I suppose you do?"

She freezes up, and he feels it in her body without even opening his eyes to see her. There are secrets that she has, certainly, some odd way of seeing the world that he could never compare to. And just as he keeps a whole deck of cards close to _his_ chest—just as there are things he can never divulge, even to one of his closest friends—the words go unsaid.

He takes her at face value, and plants more kisses along her knuckles. "You know what? I don't care if you know, or don't know. I just care that you're _alive."_

She laughs chastely. "I don't have the luxury of death."

"None of us do," he counters. "But you most of all."

"Yuri, how long have you been here?"

"About two days."

Byleth winces. "Straight?"

"Don't take it the wrong way: I just want to avoid doing chores," he snorts. "Does it bother you?"

"You should rest now," she offers, taking back her hand from his mouth. The phantom sensation of lips on skin lingers for the both of them, and they are both grateful for the dim candlelight which obscures their burning cheeks. "I'll be fine, because of you."

"Oddly enough, I don't feel like going. Someone should stay in case you need something again."

Byleth smirks, and makes space for him on the bed, cramped and small as it is. "Then maybe you'd like to stay the night?"

"I'd normally refuse sharing a bed at this hour, but for you?" Yuri grins. "Anything."

He climbs into the bed with her, finding his place beneath the bare sheets and patchwork blanket. He pulls the comforter over the both of them, snuggling close to Byleth as possible.

She shivers, and leans into him as much as she can. Even though she is shorter than him, she is not that much smaller, and so he feels her warmth like a sun enveloping his being.

He closes his eyes, and plants a tiny kiss on her exposed shoulder.

They must wait for the war to end in order to pursue any sort of complex romance, but tonight, there is no war.

There is only peace, as their breaths melt into the sedated air of the infirmary.

There is only love.


End file.
